


Blood Makes Noise

by rattatatosk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1980s, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), The Satanic Panic, Torture, Whump, Wing Injury, Wing Trauma, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25391608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattatatosk/pseuds/rattatatosk
Summary: She seems to have noticed his discomfort, because her grin only widens. “You look nervous,” she says sweetly. “Didn't think anyone was reading all those reports you filed, did you?”Crowley doesn't bother replying to that. They both know the answer.“I wonder,” Lissek muses, tapping her lip with a single neon claw, “how long you thought you would be able get away with this.” She hums, flicking another paper to the floor. “Looking at these... you've been getting sloppy, haven't you. Did you really think no one would notice? That no one would ever check?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 221





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bookwormgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/gifts).



> Be aware - this is _significantly_ darker than my usual work, so please mind the tags! And do let me know if there's anything I should tag but didn't.

* * *

_'cuz blood makes noise_  
_it's a ringing in my ears_  
_blood makes noise,_  
_and I can't really hear you_  
_in the thickening of fear_

* * *

Crowley drags himself back to consciousness slowly, the grey haze of oblivion clinging to him like sticky tar, leaving him bleary and unfocused. His head aches ferociously, pain spiking through his skull like an iron bar. He blinks several times, trying to get his vision to clear, but no luck. There's nothing wrong with his nose, though, and the rotten decay-and-brimstone stench of Hell hangs thick in the air. He flicks his tongue out, tasting, and tries to get a better read. Four, maybe five demons nearby. No one he recognizes. They don't feel particularly powerful, though.

He does his best to take stock of his corporation while he struggles to unscramble his thoughts. A concussion, probably, given the state of his head. They must have bashed him good. He's kneeling on something hard and cold-- concrete, maybe. Wherever this is has the dusty, oil-slicked smell of a warehouse. Someplace disused and half-forgotten. Out of the way. Perfect for some demons to have a bit of fun.

Lucky him.

The rest of him seems to be more or less intact, at least. His fingers and toes all move when he tries them, and nothing seems broken. He doesn't have many illusions about them _staying_ unbroken, in this situation, but for now, he's fine.

Except.

His wings are out.

When-- what had-- why are his _wings_ out. He never takes them out anymore except to preen, no matter how cramped they get tucked away in the ether. Humans are everywhere with cameras these days, and it just isn't worth the risk of getting spotted and having to sit through a reprimand from Head Office because he'd missed a couple when erasing memories.

( _He'd_ thought the stories coming out of America were funny. Beelzebub, not so much.)

What's more, there's a particular ache in his joints, a soreness to the muscles-- Whoever has captured him must have forced them out. And that-- that can mean nothing good.

He drags his limited faculties together and twitches a finger, just enough to draw a small thread of power up from Below. He lets the hot, dry magic curl through him, and feels the pain and confusion recede a little. His vision clears, enough to make out the figures around him, even if the rest of the place remains a bit fuzzy.

He raises his head, and sees two demons flanking another who's clearly the leader-- a smallish, woman-shaped creature. Her antifreeze-green eyes glow in a round face framed by a thick mane of tangled black hair that's woven through with neon-bright fabric. She's picked up Earth fashion surprisingly well-- for a certain crowd, anyway. Dressed in a hodgepodge of black leather and spikes with flares of flourescent color, he's not surprised she managed to blend in well enough at the concert that he didn't spot her. He doesn't even see her animal aspect. Perhaps she's condensed it down into a tattoo, like him. Still, there's no mistaking the malice the shines in her eyes for anything but demonic.

Her lackeys are not nearly so well disguised, however. They're all wearing the usual filthy rags of Hell, their animal aspects out in the open. He spots a rat, a roach, and an enormous centipede before a sharp tug on one of his wings draws his attention away.

“Looks like e's awake,” a gruff voice mutters from above him, and he turns to see the speaker, only to receive another sharp tug on his wing in warning. This one is followed by claws, sinking through his feathers and scraping against the skin below; an implicit threat. He shifts slightly, and he can feel a similar grip on his other side; a firm hand curled around his alulas, claws not quite breaking the skin. He isn't pinned in place, exactly, but it wouldn't be wise to try moving without a plan.

A plan. Right. He needs a plan.

He gathers himself and rolls his shoulders slightly, trying to drag together enough focus to _think_. He can handle this. He's pulled the wool over the Lords of Hell's eyes for almost six thousand years. He can manage a few low-level ladder climbers.

“About time,” the lead demon mutters, and he shifts his attention back to her, assessing. She's lounging on an old shipping crate, looking bored and cleaning nails painted an eye-searing yellow that are far too long and sharp to be human.

“Well, well, well,” she purrs, looking him over. “The Demon Crowley, the fearsome Serpent of Eden, finally deigns to grace us with his presence.” She rises in one smooth motion, and slinks over to stand in front of him, tracing one claw delicately along the tip of his nose. “Charmed, I'm sure.”

“Cut the bullshit,” he snarls, and he lets his own teeth lengthen, lets the scales bloom on his skin. “What do you want?”

She laughs, scornfully. “Isn't it obvious? I want your job, Serpent.” She crosses her arms and looks down at him, considering. “You've got a pretty cushy gig up here, don't you? _All_ these delectable human souls, ripe for the picking. A feast beyond what any demon could dream of. And yet, _you've_ gone and wasted it entirely.”

“Head Office doesn't seem to think so,” Crowley snarls.

She rolls her eyes. “You and I both know that Head Office are a bunch of idiots. Too busy scheming and plotting against each other to pay attention to the _important_ things.” She smirks. “All they see is the big picture. I, however, am a stickler for _details_.”

“Aiming for a promotion, are we?” Crowley drawls. _Get her talking_ , he thinks to himself. The longer he can keep her talking, the more time he'll have to figure some way out of this situation. Because there must be a way out.

He considers his options. He's never been much of a fighter, and he'd prefer not to resort to that, especially outnumbered as he is. But if it comes down to it, he can hold his own well enough. He's starting from a disadvantage, though, so he'd much rather scheme his way out. Distract them, disable them, long enough to make a run for it. If he can get out of here, he can call the Bentley to his side, and then all of them can eat his dust.

“What's your name, anyway?” he asks, thoughtfully, looking her over. “Don't recognize you. You're clearly the ambitious type, you'd think your name would have got around.”

She bristles at little at the implied insult, but shrugs it off. “Lissek,” she says easily, brushing grimy pink ribbons back from her face. “Deputy Assistant Manager, Compliance. And you'd know my name, if you ever bothered to spend any time in Hell, like a proper demon, instead of slacking off up here.”

Crowley hisses, going for threatening but more than a little worried, now. _Compliance_. Shit. This could be a problem. He'd thought the Compliance department was shuttered millennia ago, or at least been buried so deeply under ancient paperwork that they'd never catch up. But Lissek-- she looked like the type to take her job _very_ seriously, and probably delighted in wringing out penance for every single faulty report she could find.

Crowley has filed a _lot_ of faulty reports in his time.

She seems to have noticed his discomfort, because her grin only widens. “You look nervous,” she says sweetly. “Didn't think anyone was reading all those reports you filed, did you?”

He doesn't bother answering that. They both know the answer.

She shrugs. “You're right-- no one _was_ reading the reports. But I got tired of filing them, so I found the old Deputy Manager and we had a little one-on-one.” Her smile is as bright and as sharp as a knife. “Then I started cleaning house.”

Crowley winces. He wonders how many reports were ruined by excessive bloodstains.

“I--” He needs to say something, to keep her talking, to buy time, but they are wading into very dangerous waters very quickly and one wrong word is likely to pull him under. _Fuck._ This demon may not be very powerful but she is most certainly _very_ dangerous. “Impressive,” he croaks at last. “Dagon must have been thrilled.”

“Oh yes,” she says. “I thought about aiming for them, next, but frankly, I've no intent on simply organizing paperwork until Judgment Day.” She cracks her knuckles, and her painted claws gleam in the dim light. “Instead, I thought I'd aim a little higher. Find a position where I can make paperwork into someone else's problem.”

She twists her wrist, then, and a pile of papers appear in her hands. They look, Crowley notes with growing alarm, to be his field reports. She pages through them, flicking each to the ground when she's done, until she's surrounded by drifts of crinkled, stained paperwork.

“I wonder,” Lissek muses, tapping her lip with a single neon claw, “how long you thought you would be able get away with this.” She hums, flicking another paper to the floor. “Looking at these... you've been getting sloppy, haven't you. Did you really think no one would notice? That no one would ever check?”

He shrugs. It had been a fair assumption. Hell hadn't bothered to check up on him for nearly six millennia. Why would they start now?

“I've been looking at these reports,” she sneered, riffling through another stack. “Your ' _accomplishments_ '. This is what you call proper demonic behavior? _This_ is what gets you a commendation these days?”

She pulls out a single sheet of paper and reads it. “Influencing human teenagers to Satanic worship with something called a... 'role-playing game.'” She sniffs. “Pathetic.” She looks at the paper as if it has personally offended her, and then snaps her finger, engulfing it in hellfire. It crumbles to ash as she leans in close to him.

“You know what I think, _Crawly?_ ” Lissek spits. “I think you _like_ the humans. I think you're not actually _trying_ to corrupt them. And I think I'm going to show Beelzebub what a useless sack of scales you are, and then _I'll_ be the one up here. And I won't be wasting my time with nonsense temptations like _these_.” She lights the whole stack of reports on fire with another flick of her wrist and tosses them away in contempt, bits of burning paper falling down all around her.

 _Okay_ , he thinks frantically, _new plan_. Getting her talking is not working. Time to make an exit. If he strikes hard enough and fast enough, maybe he can get out before they have time to coordinate and stop him.

He can do this. He can. He's slithered out of worse before.

Probably.

He breathes in through his nostrils and clenches both hands into fists, pulling power up into himself. He can shift into serpent form, go _really big_ , knock them over, maybe bite one or two, bust down the door, then make a break for it before they can regroup--

But as fast as he is, Lissek somehow moves even faster, and before he can release the power, he finds himself being choked, the claws of one hand wrapped around his throat. Her other hand hovers above his face, the point of a single claw pressed gently into the delicate skin just below his eye.

He freezes.

“You talk a big game, Serpent,” Lissek says, “but you can't fool me. You're not a fighter. I've seen your files. You don't even go in for proper temptations. And you never torment the humans directly. No torture, no murders-- it's all clever tricks with you. I think you're all bluster.”

She leans in even closer, close enough to kiss, and trails the claw down his face, presses a thumb against his lip. “I'm going to take you apart, and by the end, you'll be begging me to give you over to Beelzebub's mercy.”

“Oh, fuck _off_ ,” he snarls, and acting more on instinct than conscious thought, snaps forward to sink his fangs in her wrist

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't cry out. Instead, she _giggles_ , and a grin spreads over her face, slow and predatory. “Oh,” she purrs, “I was _so_ hoping you'd try that.”

Crowley realizes his mistake immediately. This close, he can finally see her animal aspect, hidden before by the fall of her hair: a tiny, neon-colored frog perched on the curve of her ear.

 _Shit_ , he thinks, as he tries to recoil... and finds he can't. There's a creeping cold sliding through his veins, and everywhere it goes it freezes him in place. He tries to twitch a finger, desperate to pull more power, and he can't do that either. Tries to flare his wings, to knock his captors to the side. Nothing.

The fear in his throat ratchets up into real panic, his useless heart beating frantically against his ribs. He can't move. He can't _move_. He's stuck, completely paralyzed. There's no running now. He's trapped. Trapped and helpless and completely at their mercy, which demons are notoriously short on.

Lissek grins down at him, and presses her claw into his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood down his face. He breathes in sharply at the pain, unable to flinch away.

“I'm going to send you back to Hell in bloody pieces,” Lissek croons, slicing a second line next to the first, “and it's going to be _fun.”_

She pulls back then, looking him over and tapping a claw against her lip. “Hmm... where to start, though?” She paces a little, circling around him, and a chill runs down his neck as she moves out of his range of vision. He can't turn his head, can't see where she's gone. He can only hear her footsteps, scuffing on the cold concrete floor.

“I was thinking...” she muses, and he feels the pressure of her fingers sliding down the edge of his wing, all the way to the tip of one dark primary. “You've gone so native, all this time on Earth. You show the humans such mercy... you're hardly a demon at all.” He swallows hard. His muscles tremble with the desperate need to shiver, to cringe away from that touch.

He feels her hand curl around the edge of his wing, feels her breath against his ear as she leans in to whisper. “And if you're not really a demon...” she purrs, “Then what do you need these for?” And with that she sinks her claws deep into his feathers and _tears_.

Crowley gasps as a whole patch of feathers come free. She must have given some signal to the others, because suddenly there are more hands, ripping and tearing into both his wings, feathers drifting to the floor as claws sink into the flesh beneath.

The pain is terrible, but worse is the way his muscles strain to move, to curl away and shield the soft parts of himself, or to lash out and _hit back_ , to do something, _anything_. Instead they're locked into place, strung tight and aching as pain carves furrows into his back and blood drips from his feathers.

Crowley grits his teeth and swallows down the scream that rises in his throat. “ _Fuck you_ ,” he spits instead. “Your cheap trick won't last forever, and when it's done, I'm gonna rip your throats open. See how you laugh when your veins are full of venom.”

“Big talk for someone who's pinned like a bug,” the roach demon jeers, ripping another chunk of feathers out. “That's where you started, didn't you, Crawly? Wiggling around in the dirt like the rest of us.”

One of the others, possibly bored with simply pulling out his feathers, takes hold of his left wing and _twists_. He feels the bones snap under their hands, ulna and radius both, feels the wing try to sag as the weight of muscle bears it down. It fails, the muscles locked in place by that damnable poison, and he's left gasping, shuddering in place as the pain burns through his veins. Nausea rises in his throat, and he chokes it back down, blinks back the dark spots swimming in his vision.

There's a blur of motion in front of him, and he realizes Lissek is standing over him again, cupping his chin in the palm of one hand.

“Hmm, no screams yet,” she hums, thoughtfully. “I'll give you credit, Serpent, you're made of sterner stuff than I thought. But we've a long way to go, yet.” That knife-sharp smile slides back on to her face. “We'll find something to make you scream.”

Things blur together, after that. They tear into his clothes, scoring deep lines down his arms and chest. The cuts sting in the open air, but so much worse are his wings, _his wings_ , both of them a hot brand of agony at his back. He can see his feathers scattered across the concrete floor, fluttering limply as they clump together in splashes of his blood.

It's getting harder and harder to breathe, the black spots in his vision harder to banish. He doesn't even need to breathe, but his chest feels like it's constricting. Maybe it's his ribs. They hit him with something-- a crowbar? A pipe? --something long and hard and metal that slammed into his side. He felt his ribs cave under it, and now every time he breathes in it feels like a hot poker speared through his lungs.

Somehow, through all of it, he manages to keep from screaming. He refuses to give them that satisfaction, although it takes all of his waning concentration to manage it. His throat grows thick with heavy, gasping sobs, and he's mortified to realize the wetness on his face is from tears as well as blood. They drip down his face, stinging as they mingle with myriad cuts and scrapes.

He can't really feel his wings anymore; it's all one white-hot fog of pain. At some point they broke the other wing, the right one, slamming the crowbar down on the humerus, splintering it. He nearly passed out that time. He thinks he's going to pass out soon anyway. And that-- that will be even worse.

Because Lissek is right. If she drags him down to Hell like this, beaten and bloody and broken, he'll be the laughingstock of every circle. Rank in Hell is all about strength and reputation. He's spent millennia carefully crafting an image that implies he is far too dangerous to fuck with. He hasn't actually been challenged in a dozen centuries. But if he's taken down by this pack of low-ranking nobodies, it'll be open season on Crowley. Every imp will be itching to get their claws in him. To take him down a notch, and improve their own status doing it.

He'll have to claw his way back up, and he may well not survive it.

His cheek stings, suddenly, as Lissek slaps him hard. The grey haze he's been floating in recedes, just a little. Awareness slides back into place, but it's slippery. Lissek is saying something, and he struggles to focus, to hear what it is.

“You're trying to get out of this the easy way, Serpent,” Lissek hisses. “I won't have it. You don't get to pass out yet. Not when you still owe me a scream.”

A hot wave of magic flows through him then, dragging him up and out of the dizzy haze. His senses are suddenly perfectly clear, every pinprick of pain burning hot and bright and new again. He nearly chokes on the strength of it. His corporation desperately wants to thrash, to shudder and shake apart under the onslaught, to _move_ , but he can't he can't _he can't--_

The demons have spread out again. Lissek moves behind him where he can't see, and two others grab his wing, holding it steady, holding it firm, and the broken bones grind together under their claws and he gags with the pain of it and then- and then--

A hot slice of agony, and a horrifying lurch. He feels a primary come free, and he _screams_.

He swoons, nearly blacking out again, chest heaving as he tries to retch and fails. The primaries are anchored deep in the bone, and pulling a healthy one is nothing like pulling the little feathers they've already taken. It's more akin to ripping off a finger.

All things considered, he thinks he might have preferred they take a finger.

He pants and gasps and sobs and they gather around him, laughing and drinking in his pain. At some point he must have bit his tongue; blood fills his mouth and drips over his lips. Paralyzed as he is, he can't even wipe them clean.

At last his screams die down, his throat aching. He trembles with the aftershocks of it, overtaxed muscles sending distress signals lightning-bright through every part of him. He's never felt so incredibly, thoroughly, completely wrung-out.

Then they start on the next one.

They're very methodical about it, almost meticulous as they go down his wings and rip every single primary out, one by one. His head is spinning by the end, his corporation desperate to pass out, to escape this torment, but whatever magic Lissek used denies him that escape. He's lucid and present through every second of it, each new pain as keen as the first one.

Then, when they've pulled every single primary from his wings, they bring out the knife.

It's a vicious thing, hell-forged, the edge so sharp he can barely see it. Lissek makes a point to show it off, twirling it in front of his face and then tracing the line of his jaw with its point. She doesn't draw even a drop of blood, and he's sure it's because she must have something worse planned.

What can be worse than the agony he's just gone through, he's not sure. But in this one area, Hell is notoriously inventive.

“You know what we're going to do with this, Serpent?” she asks. Her voice is soft, almost gentle, if not for the cruelty coating the surface of it like an oil slick. “We're going to _ground_ you.”

His battered, exhausted mind can't grasp her meaning at first, and then she moves to grab the bend of his wing, and all at once understanding breaks over him like a wave.

She's going to pinion him.

The thought sends him into a blind panic, and he throws himself against the poison with all the mental strength he has left, scraping inside himself for any scrap of magic he might use to weaken its power, even a little. For a moment, he swears he can feel his wingtip twitch, and hope leaps in his throat-- but it dies in the next instant as the rest of him remains locked in place.

Tears are streaming down his face, and his breath is hitching as he struggles, exhausted muscles shaking as they maintain their forced position. Soft, mewling whimpers are filling his throat, and he can't stop them. Can't do anything while she- she--

“On your belly you shall go, right, Serpent?” Lissek says, with a sickening smile.

He passes out just as he feels the icy cold of the knife sliding against bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first seeds of this fic in August 2019, but didn't have a plot to go with it. You can thank Bookwormgal for egging me on until I finally came back to it and figured out the rest.
> 
> Thanks to Kedreeva also for teaching us all about how bird wings work so we can use that knowledge to better torment this poor demon.
> 
> Lissek's frog appears as a [Ranitomeya amazonica.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ranitomeya_amazonica)
> 
> Fun nature fact: the only known predator of poison dart frogs is something called the Fire-Bellied Snake, which apparently have some resistance to the frogs' poison.
> 
> Lyrics+Title from "Blood Makes Noise" by Suzanne Vega
> 
> Part 2 will be up as soon as I can manage it! I promise it'll all work out okay.


	2. Chapter 2

This, Aziraphale reflects bitterly, is turning out to be a rather _wretched_ day.

In fact, it has been a fairly wretched week. He has spent the days and nights criss-crossing this enormous country at Heaven's command, and he has found not a single hide nor hair of what he was sent here to look for. With as worried as Gabriel was about these supposedly myriad Satanic cults, by all accounts popping up like mushrooms after a spring rain, it shouldn't be so _difficult_ to track them down. And yet... there's nothing.

It's enough to make him worry that perhaps he's being given the run-around by Heaven. Is this all a wild goose chase? Some sort of perverse test? Some arcane manipulation intended to keep him in line?

It's an unkind thought, and he does his best to banish it. It is not as if Gabriel sent him out here in a deliberate effort to ruin his plans. He is not meant to _have_ plans. He is _meant_ to focus on his duty to Heaven, and be ready for their call at any moment. There is no reason he should be so disgruntled over missing a single book auction. It's not as if he hasn't been to a thousand of them in the past, and will go to hundreds more in the future.

It's his own fault, anyway, for being so invested in material things. How many times has Gabriel lectured him on how such interests are _unbefitting of an angel_?

It's only... He'd been looking forward to this book auction all year. The catalog was all very hush-hush, but the estates in question were _very_ old indeed and known to have quite a few treasures in their possession. There were even rumors that someone had got hold of a copy of _De humani corporis libri septem_ and was offering it up-- a tome which he'd been trying to hunt down for nearly five centuries.

And there would be other collectors there. Humans who understood, who knew how to properly _appreciate_ books (even if they could never care for them quite as well as he did.) Aziraphale doesn't exactly _socialize_ with humans these days, but rare-book enthusiasts are some of the few humans he can have a really _good_ conversation with, and he always enjoys their company.

(As long as they don't get the books he wants first, anyway.)

He tries to remind himself that it doesn't matter. He is immortal. There will be another chance. He can wait.

It doesn't help. The missed opportunity grates at him, and he grows increasingly irritable. He can't manage to enjoy any of the places he visits, too clearly reminded of where they are _not_.

It's this country. He likes America well enough, but _Americans_ ... Well. Everyone is so loud, and _rude_ , and there is almost no public transit to speak of. What transit does exist is slow, overcrowded, and unreliable.

Worst of all, he hasn't had a decent cup of tea in over a _week._

All in all, Aziraphale is feeling quite cross, and rather failing to contain as well as he normally might. He's meant to return to England in a few days, and then he'll have to write up his report. What he'll tell Gabriel, he has no idea. The Archangel is unlikely to accept the truth: there's nothing here.

Not wanting to return to the hotel so early, he'd gone down to the beach, hoping a walk along the shore might restore some of his equilibrium. Unfortunately, the humans seem to have had the same idea, as there is some sort of large _event_ taking place on the shoreline. From the stage they've set up, and the instruments the humans are holding, he might say it was a concert, except that the ghastly racket they are making cannot possibly be called _music_.

He makes his way further down the shore, away from the crowd, until eventually the noise fades and he's left with only the peaceful sound of the waves lapping against the shore and the cry of sea birds wheeling above. Stars glitter over his head, twinkling cheerfully, and he allows himself a faint smile. There are more of them out here than he usually sees in London. It's quite lovely, and he lets himself finally relax a bit at the sight, soaking in the tranquility of the moment.

He is just considering whether he might slip his shoes off and do a little bit of wading when the peace is interrupted by a harsh flare of demonic energy against his senses.

He twists in shock, already looking around him for the source. He can't see anything immediately near him, but the smell still lingers, so it can't be far. Squinting in the dark, he makes out the shape of some buildings set back from the water. Storehouses, perhaps, for shipping. He stretches his ethereal senses out, probing for anything out of place. Has he finally found what he's looking for after all?

It doesn't take long for him to detect a whole knot of infernal energy in one of the warehouses. Too strong to be a single demon-- more like several signatures overlapping, he thinks. That _is_ unusual. They rarely dare to come up to Earth in such numbers. Could there be humans involved? A summoning, perhaps?

He turns away from the ocean, his pace brisk with renewed purpose. Perhaps this mission won't be a total loss after all. Whether these demons are involved with a cult or not, banishing them will be _something_ productive to do. Something that even Gabriel will have to respect when he reports back, and maybe then he won't have to put up with another lecture on how to do his job before he's allowed to go home.

Gathering his power around him like a cloak, he stalks forward into the night.

The demons prove almost too easy to track. The closer he gets, the stronger their scent becomes, until he's all but following their footsteps, their path a bright, glowing trail to his ethereal senses. They don't seem to be making any effort to hide their presence, and that worries him. Could it be a trap? An ambush?

He focuses, drawing his magic tightly to him and holding it ready. It's been a long time since he was involved in real combat. With so many enemies, he'll need to strike hard and fast. Take as many out as quickly as he can, to avoid being overwhelmed.

He takes a deep breath, preparing himself. He draws his magic up, feels it pool in his core. Lets the feeling of Her love fill him, the certainty that his actions are good and just and _right._

Then he _strikes._

He slams the warehouse door open in a burst of holy light, wings flared and divine energy crackling around him. Swiftly, he takes in the scene. There are five figures scattered amidst the boxes-- no, he amends. Not five. Six. Five standing, and a sixth, kneeling before them. The iron tang of blood and pain hangs heavy in the air-- it's clear the five have been busy amusing themselves.

He steps forward, trying to get a closer look at whoever it is these demons have been tormenting, already preparing the magic he'll need to soothe and sedate a frightened human. As he does, the light shifts, and he realizes quite suddenly that the ragged shapes draped behind the figure, which he'd taken to be some kind of cloth, are in fact _wings_.

Extraordinarily familiar wings, in fact. He would know those raven-black feathers anywhere.

 _Crowley_.

Dismay coils through him, and hot on its heels is _rage_ ; a righteous fury he hasn't felt in centuries. In an instant, all the irritation and frustration built up over the past week condenses, curling hot and bright in his fist, sharp as an arrow. Purpose rises in him, an unearthing of something deep and old; the truth that burns at the very heart of him. _Defender. Protector. Principality_. This is what he was created to be.

Someone has harmed that which he holds dear, and they will not go unpunished.

He stalks forward until he can stand in front of Crowley, wings spread wide to shield the wounded demon. He raises his hand, coiled anger arcing like lightning in his palm. It thrashes and writhes, desperate to ground itself. His gaze sweeps the room, making sure of his aim, and then-- he lets go.

When the air clears, he's standing in a field of debris, the crates and boxes shattered by the force of the blast. Of the five demons, four are now only scorch marks smeared across the dirty concrete floor, still smoking faintly.

The last one has retreated, her back pressed up against the wall, thick hair frizzed and still sparking faintly. She clutches at her bloody side as she stares at him with wide eyes.

“Who the fuck are _you_?” she rasps, scrambling in the debris around her for a weapon.

 _**I am the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate** _ **,** he says, voice rumbling on the ethereal and material plane both, _**and you have made a terrible mistake, coming here.** _

The demon snarls, but wounded though she is, she doesn't back down. She reaches out and snatches up a length of wood, ragged edges sharp and splintered, and holds it before her like a blade. Her strange green eyes glow in the darkness, fierce and furious. It's an expression he hasn't seen in a long, long time... but it's not one he could ever forget.

The world blurs, then. The dark shapes of the warehouse twist and change, and he sees instead the rubble-strewn fields of Heaven, as they had been in the War. Sees the limp shapes of his fallen siblings on the ground, and before him--

The snarling face of an enemy, eyes burning bright with hate-- and he knows what he must do.

Aziraphale reaches out, heart seeking a weapon, and a metal bar leaps into his hand and bursts into flame at his touch. He bounds forward with a single, mighty flap of his wings, driven forward by cold, relentless purpose. She doesn't even have time to cry out as he brings the bar up and under her ribs, spearing her heart and pinning her to the wall in one single, smooth motion.

Her mouth opens in a silent scream, and she shudders as the holy flames lick through her, burning from the inside out. Her arms move weakly, grasping at the metal bar, before they fall limp, crumbling into dust. The rest of her follows, and in moments, there's nothing left but a coating of ash along the length of his makeshift blade.

The darkness of the warehouse closes around him, and reality slips sideways again, settling back into place. He shudders, dropping the metal as if it's burned him, and casts about, trying to regain his bearings. He had- what had he been--?

He turns and sees the kneeling figure behind him. Even in the dark, he recognizes the slim lines of that body, the dark drape of those wings.

 _Crowley_.

He races to the demon's side, furling his wings back into the ether and crouching down in front of him. He calls a light into being with an irritable flick of his wrist, trying to get a better look at the injuries.

Crowley is kneeling, wings held stiffly to either side, and oh, his _wings_. They look half-shredded, and there's an awkwardness to the shape of them that suggests at least one break. The rest of him is equally a mess-- blood everywhere, torn feathers drifting around his feet, deep cuts and scratches all over his arms and chest.

And yet he kneels, perfectly still. He hasn't moved at all since he arrived, Aziraphale realizes, not so much as a twitch.

“Crowley! Crowley, are you alright?” Aziraphale calls, brushing his hand over the demon's cheek. But Crowley's yellow eyes are glazed over, staring right through him. There's no recognition at all, no indication he even realizes he's there.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasps. “Oh, my dear Crowley. What have they done to you?”

He reaches out with his ethereal senses, then, seeking some curse or spell, some damage beyond what the eye can see. And there, twisting in Crowley's veins-- a poison, threaded through with demonic magic.

It doesn't want to answer his call, slipping away from him as he tries to grab hold, but Aziraphale is stubborn and determined, and eventually he manages to catch one end of it and _pull_. The magic unravels, twisting into an ugly knot in his hands, and he tosses it away impatiently, blasting it apart with a burst of holy light.

Crowley gives a soft, desperate hitch of breath, and then immediately collapses sideways, lying limp and boneless on the cold concrete floor. When Aziraphale rolls him over, his eyes have closed. Unconscious or asleep-- either way, it's better than- than whatever he had been. Aziraphale gathers him up as best he can, holding the demon's gangly form tight against his chest.

“Rest now, Crowley,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers lightly over the demon's forehead. “I've got you. I'll get us somewhere safe.”

* * *

He's drifting, someplace soft and comfortable, the peace of it lapping against him like a gentle tide. He lets himself be carried by it, relaxing into its hold. His thoughts are fuzzy and slow; is he still dreaming? He'd dreamed... he can't remember, but it had been something very nice. Something... He tries to chase the thought, but finds the effort tiring, and lets it go instead, drifting away on that placid, ebbing tide. It calls to him, beckons him to come back, to sink beneath the waves again and just... let go. Just rest.  
  
It's tempting. He's tired, more tired than he can remember being in a very long time. There's no pain here, wherever _here_ is, but he can sense something like the echo of it. The whole of him _aches_ , and the memory of it is a weight that bears down on him, muscle and bone. He needs to rest, to heal.

Still, awareness tugs at him. He should wake, he thinks. There's something... something that needs his attention. But he is so very tired, and this sleepy haze is so very comfortable, he can't bring himself to leave it.

Something brushes against his back, smoothing his feathers down. The touch is tender, careful. Pleasant. But... there's something about the sensation of it. It's... familiar. The memory is fuzzy, muted, the way his injuries were. But there's still something there.

He frowns, the thought tugging at him more forcefully, pulling him closer to waking.

Hands, on his wing. There are-

 _There are hands on his wing_.

Memory crashes over him like an icy wave, the calm around him immediately shattered by raw panic. He remembers. He remembers Lissek and her poison, remembers sharp claws tearing into him, ripping out his feathers, breaking his bones, and then- then--

His wings flare out instinctively as he twists away from the touch, but they don't get far-- there's something on his back, something wrapped tight around him, holding him fast, and he- he can't _move_ , he--

An involuntary noise crawls up and claws its way out of his throat, a high pitched, keening whine, and he scrambles to get away. He doesn't make it very far. There's fabric all around him, and it tangles up his feet, twists him up and holds him fast.

There's something else, too-- the sound of a voice above him, muffled words he can't make out. Then more hands, grabbing at him, holding him still. He struggles against them, terrified pleas falling out of him like a waterfall, like a litany of prayer: _no, no please, please don't, don't, stop- please! stop!_

He thrashes desperately, but he's held fast, strong arms wrapped around him. Trapped in place, his strength fails him, and he collapses into the hold, trembling. He tries to brace himself for the next wave of pain to crash over him, for the terrible sharp cold of the knife against bone.

It's only when the pain fails to arrive that his panic ebbs enough for some of the sounds to solidify into words, and the voice speaking them wavers into clarity. It's apologies, all soft soothing nonsense and desperate attempts at comfort, and Crowley at last understands who it is that's holding him.

“ 'Ziraph'le?” he rasps, disbelieving. It- it can't be. Aziraphale is supposed to be back in London, half a world away, not in southern California. _Crowley_ isn't even supposed to be out here, not really, so how--?

“Shh, shh, shh,” Aziraphale soothes. “It's me, Crowley. It's only me. It's alright. I've got you. You're safe.”

He cracks an eye open, twisting around, still disbelieving, and-- oh, yes, those are Aziraphale's blue eyes above him, his face lined with worry.

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” he breathes, voice thick with relief, and relaxes into the angel's hold. “What're you-? How-?” Aziraphale's arms are warm and strong, holding him tight, and the restriction should bother him, but he can only find it reassuring. Aziraphale has him. He's safe.

“Try not to move too much,” Aziraphale says gently, laying him back on the bed and brushing a lock of hair from his face. “I healed what I could, but there's only so much I can do for your wings. I've cleaned them and bound the breaks, but the rest will have to heal on its own.”

Crowley shifts slightly, getting comfortable-- and yes, he can feel it now, the cloth wrapped around his wings to hold them in place. It's not exactly a _pleasant_ sensation, especially after his recent paralysis, but a necessary one, if he wants his wings to heal properly.

He shivers. He doesn't want to think about his wings right now. He turns his attention back to his angel instead.

Aziraphale is still holding his hand, running his thumb absently over Crowley's knuckles. It's soft and gentle and soothing; Crowley surrenders to the distraction of it, his eyes slipping half-closed.

He lets himself drift for a little while, but he's not ready to sleep again, not just yet. Instead he turns his head, looking up at the angel curiously.

“What're you doing in America, anyway?” he mumbles. “Thought you had a book thing.”

Aziraphale tuts. “I _did_ ,” he grumbles. “Gabriel sent me a new assignment at the last minute. Said there was a whole wave of Satanic cults sprouting up all across America, and I needed to get over here right away and see what I could do about them.”

“...what?” Crowley blinked. “ 'S no cults. I would've told you.”

“Yes, I'm sure you would have,” Aziraphale says, smiling. “But I couldn't very well tell _Gabriel_ that, so here I am, traveling all over the country looking, just in case... it's been rather terrible, you know. Not a decent cup of tea to be had anywhere. Several places tried to serve me something called _sweet tea_ , and it was _horrendous_ , I can't even begin to tell you.”

“Ngh. Yeah. 'Merica's like that,” Crowley murmurs, a slow smile creeping across his face as he listens to Aziraphale rant. Aziraphale has moved his other hand to Crowley's head, and is absently running his fingers through Crowley's hair as he rambles on. Crowley nudges his head into the angel's hand like a cat, trying to encourage more of this attention without being too obvious about it. They don't often allow themselves this much intimacy, and he's not about to waste it.

“It's been a rather horrible trip,” Aziraphale says softly, as he winds down. “But... well. I suppose I'm glad of it, if I ended up finding you. I can't imagine what would have happened if I hadn't. I was so worried...”

Crowley grimaces. Now that he's been reminded of his injuries, he can't stop thinking about them. The memories rise up as he closes his eyes, and he sees his blood spattered across the concrete floor, ruined feathers fluttering. Hears the high, cruel laughter of the other demons.

“I'm- I'm alright,” he says, squeezing Aziraphale's hand and offering a weak smile, doing his best to sound reassuring. “Better than I was, anyway.”

Aziraphale doesn't seem convinced. He takes his hand away, turns Crowley's cheek up to meet his eyes. “I'm not sure that's as encouraging as you mean it to be, Crowley. When I found you...”

Crowley turns his head away. He doesn't want to think about this. He wants to relax, to slip back into that comfortable, sleepy haze and rest, safe and warm and near his angel. But Aziraphale won't let him avoid the issue so easily, and besides, he... he needs to know.

He takes a deep breath, bracing himself, and dives in.

“Aziraphale,” he says softly. “Tell me. How-- how bad is it?”

Aziraphale sighs, and leans back. Crowley hears the soft thud as his head hits the headboard. “They did quite a number on you, I'm afraid. Primary feathers all gone, big patches of the others missing... I did my best to clean and dress the cuts, but you'll want to heal them as soon as you can. I- I can't imagine wounds made by demons are likely to heal cleanly.”

He rubs his face, suddenly looking very worn and tired himself. “...and there are the breaks, of course. I've bound them, but they'll be a week healing, at least. You'll need to take it easy until then.”

Crowley blinks. That's-- about what he expected, actually. His wings still hurt, but it's no longer the white-hot agony it had been-- just the persistent ache of healing. Still, he remembers, just before passing out, the sharp pain at his joint, the slice of the hell-forged knife.

“And that's...” he hesitates. “That's all? Nothing else?”

Aziraphale looks down at him, puzzled. “Is that not quite enough?”

“No, I know, it's just...” he curls in on himself, clutches the blankets tighter. He swallows, not wanting to say it out loud, half afraid that giving voice to it will make it real. “Right before I passed out. They, ah.” He forces himself to breathe. _In, out, in._ He can do this. “...They said they were going to pinion me.” A shudder passes through him again at the thought, a tremble that goes all the way down to the tips of his wings.

“Oh! Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale gasps. He reaches down and takes Crowley's hand in his own, squeezing hard. “No,” he says softly. With his other hand he traces the edge of Crowley's wing. Crowley shivers, again. He thinks it will be some time before he'll be completely comfortable with someone else touching his wings.

“No,” Aziraphale says again. “I- I think I must have found you right after that. You were hurt, but... nothing that won't heal, in time.”

“Oh,” Crowley says. The tension he's been holding onto bleeds out of him, and he goes limp, slumping down into the tangle of pillows and blankets. _They didn't. They didn't._ For all that he rarely gets the chance to fly anymore, the thought of never being able to fly again had been...

But they didn't. Aziraphale found him. He's okay.

“...thank you,” he says, thickly. “I- that's-- I owe you one.”

“You _don't_ ,” Aziraphale says immediately. “Crowley, you--” he trails off, and the silence stretches on. Crowley lets it. He's used to being patient with Aziraphale, and the angel is clearly upset by the situation; is struggling to find the words to wrap around it.

At last Aziraphale says quietly, “...is this what you meant, when you talked about needing insurance?”

 _That_ gets Crowley's attention. They don't talk about this. Not once, not ever, in the decade and change since Aziraphale showed up in his car with a confession and a plea all wrapped up in a tartan thermos.

“Ngh,” Crowley hisses. “Yeah. Well, no. Sort of.” He sighs, pressing his face into the pillows. “The insurance is a last resort. It's supposed to be for when they find out about _us_. This... this was just office politics.”

Aziraphale makes an aggrieved noise, and Crowley sighs. This is the reality of Hell, and he does his best, but he can't always hide it from the angel. “Somebody got clever,” he continues. “Thought they'd move up the ranks by taking me out.” He hisses in frustration. “Almost managed it, too. My fault, really. Got sloppy. Didn't see them coming.”

Aziraphale looks at him with a wounded expression. “Crowley...”

Crowley shrugs. It's _Hell_ , what did he expect? “It's fine. Well, it's not _fine_ , but... it is what it is, angel.” He curls over on his side, tucking himself closer to Aziraphale. “Like I said. My lot don't send rude notes.”

“I...see,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I-” he opens his mouth like he want's to say something else, but in the end he only shakes his head and lets it go.

They lapse into silence again. Aziraphale's hand drifts back to his head, carding through his hair, and Crowley closes his eyes. It's wonderful, this closeness, this quiet intimacy between them. He wishes they could allow themselves to have this more often, but... well. If tonight's clusterfuck proved anything, it's that he hasn't been paranoid _enough_.

Once he's recovered, he's really going to have to step up his work. Go out and do some real tempting he can put on his reports, get everything squared away, so that no one else is tempted to go digging-- or if they do, there won't be anything for them to find. Bad enough that someone in Hell caught him out. He can't risk anything happening to Aziraphale.

But those are problems for another time. For now, exhaustion and pain tugs at him, pulling him down, back into the soft grey haze of sleep.

“Rest,” Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley does.

* * *

Crowley wakes late enough the next day that it can only barely be called _morning_ , and allows himself an indulgent yawn and a good stretch in the warm beam of sunlight streaming across the bed. He cracks his neck and arches his back in a positively serpentine curve that cracks every one of his too-many vertebrae, and feels much better for it.

His wings are better. Stiff and sore, and he'll look like a half-plucked chicken until the feathers grow back, but improving. He tucks them away into the ether and miracles himself a new outfit.

Aziraphale, curled up in the chair across from the bed with a book on his lap, looks at him over the rim of his reading glasses, an indulgent smile tugging at his lips.  
  
“Feeling better?” he asks mildly.

Crowley nods, and yawns again. “I don't suppose there's any coffee?”

“I could make some,” Aziraphale says, “but I rather thought we might go out for breakfast, instead. It's been awhile, and there's a bakery nearby that offers 'almost bottomless mimosas.'” His smile widens. “If you wanted a challenge.”

Crowley grimaces. “I shouldn't. I need to make an appearance Downstairs. Do damage control. Squash any rumors those assholes might be spreading. See that nobody else gets any ideas about me being an easy target.”

Aziraphale frowns, and gets a rather odd look in his eye, as he tucks his book away. “Well, I will miss you at breakfast. But, er. Hm. I don't think you need to worry overmuch about those other demons spreading any rumors.”

Crowley tilts his head, baffled. “Eh? 'Course they will. I'm sure I've told you, demons are terrible gossips.”

“Oh, yes, you have,” the angel agrees. “But they can hardly spread any rumors if they're, ah... no longer around.”

Crowley squints at him, trying to puzzle this out. Aziraphale really should know better than to give him riddles before he's had any coffee. “Angel,” he says slowly, “...what did you do?”

Aziraphale _blushes_.

“...I may have smited them. Er, rather harder than I intended to,” he mumbles. “I, ah. I do believe they are all quite dead.”

“... _dead,_ dead,” Crowley asks slowly, “or discorporated?”

“Dead,” Aziraphale says, still not looking at him.

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley says, in scandalized tones, grinning widely.

“I got carried away!” Aziraphale cries, in a plaintive whine that takes him right back to Eden. “They surprised me, and then I saw you, and— _well._ ” He huffs, drawing his coat around him in that way that reminds Crowley of a disgruntled chicken fluffing up its feathers.

“ _Really_ , it was their own fault,” Aziraphale grumbles, “being so obvious. I _was_ sent to investigate demonic activity, and that lot seemed determined to cause quite a bit of harm. I _am_ a Principality, and America may be outside my usual jurisdiction, but I still can't allow harm to come to it.”

“And,” he says softly, his gaze flicking up to meet Crowley's, “as you should know by now, I take care of what's mine.”

Crowley flushes.

“Right,” he coughs, looking away and rubbing his hands awkwardly on his jeans. “Well. I should-- I should still go. Put in an appearance, at least. Tell the story of how I bravely fought off the fierce Principality once again, after a bunch of idiots riled you up and got vaporized for it.”

He conjures a pair of sunglasses and slides them onto his nose, rubbing the back of his head as he stands. “But, ah...afterwards. I'll swing by, yeah? Next week, maybe? Take you out for breakfast. ” He grins. “I hear there's a new creperie that opened in the West End. Supposed to be pretty good. My treat.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I'll look forward to it. Take care of yourself until then, hm?”

Crowley's grin only widens as he saunters out the door and gives a backwards wave. “Of course. Don't I always?”

He hears Aziraphale huff behind him. “Ridiculous serpent.”

Crowley smirks, already preparing his story. With the right spin, and a few embellishments... yes, he thinks he can make this work. _They thought they could give me Hell?_ he smirks; _I'll show them how it's done._


End file.
